An epithets.

It's a come home safe morning, at the intersection of pedestrian language, long before you dug up the scars all the way back on these newspaper. checked the obituary since the day you found your own suicide letter, nobody could tell your fascination with history or why do you believe archeology is a lie, they are like a tales about an angels scattering the confetti on each funerals. you see yourself that day no longer need a seatbelt when you going home because gravity cradled your hands and brought them crashing back to earth like a 747. you felt like staring into the heavens; skating across the frozen cirrus clouds, —like a beyond cumulus nimbus mountains. you don't remember anything besides you were a state of existence where all your atoms were looking at him wondering if home is too far from here. he brought the sun to lead the way to you and told his arms are a place when your 18 year old of wounds want to come for a little visit. he built a blanket fort around your little damaged heart with his voice and you remember your grandma once told love is thirsty and suddenly you found yourself drinking dandelion wine from a pitcher in your knees. your childhood memories stood in a circle and it wanted to cry for his softness so badly as an onochord message to tell him;